Some Have Gone, and Some Remain
by Flame Tigress
Summary: After graduation from Hogwarts and Voldemort's defeat, Hermione left England...and 11 years later, she comes back changed almost unrecognizably. *ON HOLD INDEFINITELY. DO NOT READ*
1. Default Chapter

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Disclaimer: Well, Hermione is so out-of-character that you could call this version mine, but all the people and places belong to J.K. Rowling and her _legal_ publishers.

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Author's Note: How long ago did I start this? Is it six months ago, or are we up to seven? A weird idea about second chances that got slightly out of hand: I played with tentative plot development ideas that were sort of soap-opera-esque, decided the story was stupid, and let it lie dormant. Then my beta-reader Meliara said, "Remember that great _Harry Potter_ fanfiction story you were writing before you became insanely obsessed with _The Lord of the Rings_?" or words to that effect. Now that I have decided to put an end to my Frodo-killing spree, as Meliara thinks I am psychotic, I am taking this out of hiding and posting the beginnings and then finishing the thing. Let's see if I can sustain a chapter-fic for longer than 10 pages. Please, for God's sake, review me to give me the will to go on. Give me any suggestions you may have. And do drop by my other fics, HP and LOTR, while waiting for me to finish this. Thank you ;-).

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Chapter 1

Recollection

The bricks and the concrete that surrounded the back lot of the Leaky Cauldron, blank and stony as always, stirred images in Hermione's memory that had long been dormant. She recalled the first time she came here – not yet eleven years old, terrified, excited, and determined in a young, naïve, eager way to conquer the new world she had just discovered. She touched her hand to the bricks of the wall that stood as a locked door between her and the world of wizardry, a fantasy land from long ago that seemed now almost like a dream… Then, locked doors had never been a problem for Hermione. All she had to do was whip out her wand from her billowing black robes, tap it to the lock, and whisper, "Alohomora!" The solution to any problem was, as though in a magical utopia from the pages of a book, the hidden mystical power in an ordinary thin stick of wood, the physical incarnation of every Muggle's dream and faith in the inheritance of the meek. The wand…Hermione pulled it from the inner pocket of her coat, and nervously twiddled it between her fingers. It had been so long since her magic had seen daylight, and the sun had looked upon the piece of wood that embodied her power as a witch. For so long, many doors had been locked to her, but she could do nothing. For so long, she had been trying to live by her power as a human being.

Suddenly decisive, Hermione counted two bricks up, three bricks over, and tapped the brick she landed upon with the wand. Her stomach felt like it was turning over within her; she feared that she had made the wrong choice, that reentry into the world she had left would remind her of why she had been avoiding it.

Like a whispered "Alohomora!" of the distant past, the tap to the brick was the key to a door that perhaps should have stayed barred – the bricks shifted and opened into an arch leading to the cobblestone, shop-lined, magic-filled Diagon Alley. The quaint little buildings and their quaint little people, dressed in robes, cloaks, and pointed hats and talking of "Quidditch," the "Ministry of Magic," "Hogwarts," and the price of dragon liver were a sharp reminder to Hermione that she was a stranger now. But it was all so familiar – Quality Quidditch Supplies, where broomsticks were on display and young children ogled and revered them, wide-eyed; Eeylops Owl Emporium, from which soft hooting and rustling noises came; the apothecary, with jars of curious potion ingredients lined up in the windows; Ollivander's wand shop, subdued, shrouded in cobwebs, age, mystery, and importance.

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Recollection, like a ginger cat sitting darkened in the shadows,

Emerges from the shaded corners of memory

To nudge me and rub against my leg, an old friend

But provokes tears for the half-bitter sweetness of its love.

Every emotion turned to poetry in Hermione's mind, for she was a poet.

Slowly, as though in a trance, Hermione walked down the old-fashioned street, attracting strange looks from the wizards and witches around her for her plainly Muggle garb – the long black coat over black pants, the black headscarf covering her thick, shoulder-length, golden-brown hair, the gold cross on a chain plainly visible, hanging outside her clothing. She gazed into the windows of shops, as wide-eyed and astonished as she had been the first time she saw these too-fantastic-to-be-true places and things. She wandered into the bookshop, Flourish and Blotts, entranced by the unbelievable titles that struck her as humorous now that she had not seen them for so long: _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, A History of Magic, A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration;_ there were books of charms and curses, magical potions and ways to predict the future. _I never would have believed it,_ Hermione thought, _if I hadn't experienced it, didn't know for a fact that this was all true._

A shopkeeper in plain black robes and a matching pointed wizard's hat came hurrying over, asking anxiously with his hands clasped in front of his chest, "May I help you?"

Startled, Hermione turned, then smiled slowly. Everything was exactly the same as it had been all those years before. "No," she said. "No, thank you. I'm just looking around…"

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Recollection is a distant hunger,

Long ago forgotten, accustomed to starvation;

Too hungry to tear the gaze away from living memories,

Too hungry to do anything but gaze.

Slowly, as if in a dream, she strolled back towards the door, reading every amazing title, memorizing the feeling of awe, excitement, and exhilarating apprehension flooding over her in the same way it had seventeen years ago, as gradually her astonished mind assimilated the new experiences surrounding it and realized, once again, that it had not been, was not, a dream.

Hermione emerged into the cold, crisp autumn air of London's streets, so different from the Mediterranean climate to which she had become accustomed. She found herself drawn into every shop, to marvel once more at the owls being sold as pets and as message carriers; at the frog toes and beetle eyes, unicorn tail hairs and dragon scales being purchased as household ingredients; at the bizarre, unimaginable variety of candies, from blood-flavored lollipops to vomit-flavored jelly beans. It was laughable, but it had been the fulfillment of every romantic dream; it was all so odd, and odder yet since it was commonplace.

Hermione didn't know why she wanted to go into Ollivander's. There wasn't really anything to gawk at; just long boxes, wooden sticks, and dust. But she entered that small, understated, intriguing building of a will not her own, as if trying to complete her journey from a life of magic to non-magic and back to magic again – her identity; but her destiny? – as it had started. She had to duck to pass through the low doorway. No one was inside, except for Mr. Ollivander himself, who glided mysteriously from near the door to the back room. The stacks upon stacks of wand boxes and the one little rickety chair in the corner were exactly the same as they had been; it was as if the entire wizarding world had been in a freeze-frame, waiting for her to return, as it knew she would.

"How may I help you today?" he asked, his voice still misty and shrouded, full of concealed knowledge and a lifetime of memories.

"I don't really need anyting, _merci_," Hermione said as politely as possible when the misty, silvery eyes were unnerving her so. "I'm just – looking around."

Mr. Ollivander narrowed his eyes as he concentrated on placing the familiarity of the new voice and face. Then his eyes widened as he remembered suddenly –

"Miss Hermione Granger," he half-whispered. "I almost didn't recognize you behind the French accent."

Hermione laughed. "I 'ave been away for a long time," she said. She looked around the little shop. "Business seems to be slow in November, when all ze new 'ogwarts students already have zeir wands, and it won't be 'til Christmas holidays when zey come to you to replace the wands zey've blown up."

"I remember every wand I've sold, as you recall, Miss Granger," he said suddenly, his voice as vague, misty, and mysterious as his silvery eyes.

"Mrs. Couillaud now," Hermione corrected the wand-seller quietly, not sure if he could hear her.

"I remember your wand well. Willow, eleven-and-a-quarter inches, swishy, well-suited to both charm work and transfiguration." He paused, staring intently at Hermione. "Do you remember the magical substance that gives your wand its power?"

"Dragon 'eartstring, I believe," Hermione replied, a bit mystified.

"Yes…unusual combination, a wood as delicate and flexible as willow, a core as strong as dragon heartstring. I wasn't even sure myself if it would agree with anyone."

"It has worked quite well, it turns out," Hermione said. "I was top of my class at 'ogwarts, before I went traveling back into the Muggle world."

"Yes…yes." Mr. Ollivander busied himself with rearranging crooked stacks of wand boxes. "Funny, the way things turn out…" he said ambiguously. He glanced at an old grandfather clock in the back corner. Its hand was pointing at the part of the face labeled "Nip off to lunch, then."

"Oh!" Hermione said. "I don't mean to be intruding on your lunch hour."

"Not at all, not at all," Mr. Ollivander said vaguely.

"Really, I should be going," Hermione said. _Not that I have anywhere to go,_ she added silently.

She walked back out of the small shop, a bell tinkling faintly. It was odd, when she could look for a little café – in which to sit, drink coffee, and write poetry – and not find one, when for two years they had lined every street of her home city.

Slipping her icy hands into the pockets of her coat, Hermione strolled down the street in the direction she had come, trying to sort through all of her confused memories.

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Recollection is a cloud bank on the horizon, lit and glowing

With the illumination of the crimson half-circle sun.

Not knowing whether the sun is rising or setting,

I wait for the rainstorm to descend.

Hermione hypothesized that the place she would be most likely to find coffee on the beverages list was Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor, rather than the Leaky Cauldron, where the majority of drinks was alcoholic, so she moseyed in the direction of the little place. Like in Ollivander's, a bell rang softly when she opened the door and entered. It was not crowded, the day being a nippy one. There were a few young children, who had begged reluctant parents into letting them have ice cream, sitting importantly at the Woolworth-style white counter on the high stools. A few businesspeople on lunch break were doing paperwork in a clean, quiet environment, sipping interesting-colored phosphate sodas through straws. Hermione scanned the tables and booths, seeing that there were several empty ones. She stepped up to the counter, ready to order coffee (which was, in fact, on the list of beverages), when the door's bell rang again, and she turned curiously to see who had come in.

The person's head was bent, seemingly against the chilly wind that gusted through the open door before it closed again, abruptly shutting out the draft. He removed a navy blue wizard's hat that matched his plain, businesslike robes. The disheveled head of hat hair that was uncovered was bright red-orange. Wildly hopeful and happily surprised, Hermione asked of the man – who appeared to be her own age – "Ron? Ron Weasley?"

He looked up, blue eyes slightly widened and mildly startled. The throat-sounded 'r' in his name evidenced an accent that was unmistakably French. "Fleur?" he inquired randomly.

The woman that walked hurriedly towards him was dressed like a Muggle, and all in black. "No," she said, sounding excited. Her voice sounded vaguely familiar to Ron, but he was having trouble placing it. "Air-me-own Coo-yo," was what her next words sounded like. The second word left him nonplussed, but the first reminded him of another accent – Bulgarian – and a mispronounced name: Hermy-own…Herm-own-ninny…

"_Hermione?_" he asked, disbelieving.

"_Oui,_" she said, nodding and smiling.

"Oh, my God!" he said, shaking his head. "Hermione? Where have you been for eleven years? Stupid question – France, obviously. Where else would you have picked up that accent? I'm babbling now, but – God, it's good to see you!"

"Not just France," she said. "Germany, Spain, Portugal, Italy, Austria, America…everywhere."

"And I've just stayed here for eleven years, getting old and boring… Say, what are you here for? If we want ice cream, we'd better get it now, and then I can interrogate you while it melts. Plan, eh?"

Hermione and Ron walked up to the counter. "I'd just like coffee, black, _s'il vous plait,"_ Hermione said to the worker behind the counter. Looking only slightly guilty, Ron said, "Large chocolate ice cream, please. I'll pay for both."

"I 'ope zat's dessert?" Hermione said pointedly.

"Hey, I had a healthy lunch yesterday…or maybe it was Monday… Oh, come on, it's an emotional reunion after a separation of over a decade! Why do you still have the 'eat your vegetables' mentality towards me?" Ron asked irritably.

"Because you need it," Hermione said, a laugh in her voice.

"That's five Sickles, sir," the worker said impatiently. Ron rummaged in his pocket and produced the silver coins.

"Next time you tell me to eat my vegetables, I'm making _you_ pay," Ron said to Hermione as they went to find a table.

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Recollection is a fickle thing –

Bittersweet memories, lost innocence

That bring forth tears of regret;

Reminders of the innocence not yet lost

That stir laughter among the tears.


	2. Back in the Atmosphere

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Disclaimer: Am I allowed to put one on the first chapter and just quit? No, I haven't magically gotten a paying job plagiarizing J.K. Rowling's works between yesterday and today. Oh, but the chapter title reminds me – the song "Drops of Jupiter" belongs to the band Train, and I'd have to get the CD liner notes to tell you exactly who wrote it, and I'm too lazy, so let's leave it at Train. And I'm very sorry to John Lennon and Sir Paul McCartney for stealing the lyrics of your song "In My Life" for the story title.

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Author's Note: That was fast, eh? That's because it was already written when I uploaded Chapter 1! OK. In case you hadn't noticed, I am a stupid American, so I will not be very accurate about British things and expressions, and I am very sorry and wish I lived in Europe because it's so much cooler. Just as a precaution, I don't have anything against homosexuals or writers of slash – in fact, I am known to get defensive at people's unwitting expressions of homophobia in everyday language – but I felt it an amusing touch to comment on the clichés of _Harry Potter_ fanfiction. You'll see what I mean. Be a dear and read some other of my writings, won't you? I am a Tom Riddle sympathizer…or angst-maker…if that interests you.

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Chapter 2

Back in the Atmosphere

Ron couldn't stop staring at Hermione in utter amazement over the table in Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor. A smile played across her lips as she gazed back at him, amused in a sad sort of way that it had been so long since Ron had seen her that he was gaping at her as if she was back from the dead.

"I really can't believe you're back," Ron said, shaking his head. He laughed miserably and continued, "It's pathetic that after all this time, all I can think to say is, 'What's with the outfit?'"

"Zat's pathetic," Hermione concurred.

"So, what _is_ with the outfit?" Ron pursued. "You look like you're in mourning."

"I am," Hermione said shortly.

"I'm sorry." Ron sighed. "What's really pathetic is that after all this time, I can still think of exactly the wrong thing to say.'

"It's what makes you so infuriatingly endearing," Hermione said matter-of-factly, her honesty provoking a laugh from Ron.

"For whom are you mourning?" Ron asked, carefully avoiding saying, 'So, who died?'

"My husband," Hermione replied, turning her face away, her voice tight.

"You're – you _were_ – married?" Ron asked incredulously. "Not that it's such an impossible thing – I didn't mean it that way at all…" Ron trailed off, frustrated with his own incompetence.

"My last name is _Couillaud,_ not Granger. You could 'ave drawn a conclusion from zat," Hermione said irritably.

"I'm too thick," Ron said miserably. He banged his head against the table, then took a large bite of his already-melting ice cream to console himself. Hermione laughed through tears that were starting in her eyes at the memory of her husband.

There was a lull in the conversation. Then Ron began staring bemusedly at Hermione's fingers. She stared at them, too, unaware of what they had been doing. They were tapping in time to the slow progression of electric guitar chords in the introduction to a song.

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"Now that she's back in the atmosphere

With drops of Jupiter in her hair,

Eh, e-e-eh eh eh," a man's voice sang.

"Ah…zis is an American Muggle song from about seven years ago," Hermione said, puzzled.

"So it is," Ron replied. "We get some of those. There are Muggle bands that have wizarding members…they just never tell their bandmates."

"You don't say," Hermione said, intrigued.

"Sure. For instance, we also hear Simon and Garfunkel around here."

"Zey were wizards?" Hermione asked, astonished.

"No – Paul Simon isn't a wizard. But how many ordinary Muggles are you going to find with a name like 'Garfunkel'?"

Hermione threw her head back and laughed. "You learn a new ting every day."

The conversation stalled a little while again. _She's back in the atmosphere with us ordinary, earthbound people,_ Ron thought. _Drops of Jupiter in her hair, a French accent, and extraordinary experiences to tell about._

"So – Hermione," Ron began. "I have three basic, burning questions I have to ask you: Why did you leave? Where did you go? Why did you come back?"

"Where did I go? Well, first, I went to the Maxime Université Magique in Paris…"

Ron wasn't sure if Hermione ignored his first question on purpose or not, but he let it slide.

"I was a triple major, being the gross overachiever zat I am: spell-writing, Animagi, and Arithmancy in general, as well as 'ow it is involved with my ozzer two areas of study. Did you know zat zere is a different Arithmantical function for each Animagus, even if zey are ze same animal? Zere are different magical reasons – physical and spiritual – for each witch or wizard to choose ze shape he or she does, and for ze form to accept ze wizard…"

Ron was staring blankly at Hermione, clearly communicating to her that _he did not care_ without being rude enough to say it.

"…but I digress," Hermione said, taking the hint. "Well, I was learning in ze wizarding world, but one does transverse ze semi-permeable membrane between ze worlds magical and Muggle, so to speak, because zey are so close and because wizards do not seem to be capable of making a decent cup of coffee…" She stared in distaste at the one in front of her, then continued. "I met a very nice young man in a Muggle café. His name was Daniel Couillaud. He was studying art and poetry at a Muggle university; I kept running into 'im at tourist attractions like ze Louvre, l'Arc de Triomphe, le Tour Eiffel. I grew to quite like 'im, actually…

"But zen I went abroad junior year, and God, I traveled everywhere…Germany, Italy, Austria, Switzerland, Greece, even ze Iberian Peninsula. I learned Deutsch, Italiano, and español, but never quite got ze 'ang of Portugese. Came back senior year to graduate, zen I was off on my journeys again: all over middle and western Europe. I would have gone to Israel for ze religious 'istory, but zere was too much violence to safely tour ze Middle East. I found myself keeping to ze interests in ze Muggle world, avoiding ze wizarding world…I spent a year traveling in Europe, zen I was off to America. It is an intriguing place, Ron, with bizarre people. Many are quite spoiled, and ignorant of ze indigence around zem. Ze president of ze United States, when I was zere in 2003 and 2004, was not ze brightest crayon in ze box, as Americans are fond of saying, zough he was an enthusiastic leader…"

Ron was giving Hermione the blank, 'you're getting off topic again' look.

"So sorry. Well, I became quite interested in ze popular music of America, as well as ze culture, because is was such a startling change from ze culture of Europe. I spent two full years in America, and was actually able to make a living as a published poet (zough I did work a day job at McDonald's as well). Zen I returned to France…and I ran into Daniel again. In fact, I ended up marrying him. Like fate, isn't it, zat I came back to 'im?"

Ron had no idea of how Hermione could miss the irony. Was it not fate that she should have known Ron before, been his best friend (next to Harry) at Hogwarts, and then run into him again when she returned home? Did she not see how the story of Ron and Hermione could be a larger-scale version of the story of Daniel and Hermione: knowing one another at school, her going away and seeing the world, only to come back to him again? "Hm," he said in response to her question, and in the pause that followed, he heard from the radio in the background:

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"…So tell me – did Venus blow your mind?

Was it everything you wanted to find,

And then you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?"

"So, Weasley, finally got a girlfriend, have you?" drawled a very familiar – very unfortunately familiar – voice from outside the booth where Ron and Hermione were sitting. "I was afraid you'd go the way of your Head Boy brother and turn out gay…or maybe your overwhelmingly manly charms were just too much for most women?"

Apparently, this was a very sensitive subject for Ron, because the tops of his ears turned pink as they had always done whenever he was angry or embarrassed, and he growled, "Fuck off, Malfoy," his hands curling instinctively into fists. Hermione stared very pointedly at his white-knuckled fists, clearly admonishing his violent reflexes, and Ron quickly straightened his fingers and flexed them against the side of the table.

"It's 'is boyish charms, actually, Monsieur Malfoy, zat make Ron appealing," Hermione said jokingly, making no attempt to play Malfoy's game and be sarcastic and snide. She pronounced 'Malfoy,' in the French manner, as 'Mal-fwah.'

"Oh yes, Malfoy, I'm not sure if you've met Hermione _Granger_ Couillaud," Ron said acidly.

"_Granger?"_ Malfoy asked unbelievingly. "What happened to you?"

"I left," she said simply. "I went to university, traveled, became a poet, got married, found God, and was widowed." She toyed with the golden cross that hung around her neck. "It's Madame Couillaud, not 'Granger.'"

"I'm sorry," he said shortly, not sounding at all as if he meant it. His eyes rapidly traversed Hermione's apparel, from trousers to headscarf. "And, being the eccentric poet you are," Malfoy said, his tone on the surface very amiable and civil, "you just decided to dress like a Muggle and affect a French accent?"

"No," Hermione said, her voice tight with firmly reined-in anger, "my 'usband is – was – a Muggle and a Frenchman."

Surprise flashed across Malfoy's features; his expression briefly darkened, but then his countenance resumed its placid, icy friendliness. "Of course – mud, a form of the cardinal element earth, seeks its own level," Malfoy taunted, his tone mockingly matter-of-fact.

Ron began to stand up quickly, and jostled the table, causing Hermione's coffee cup to rattle and slosh dangerously. "If I had a glove, Malfoy," Ron growled, his voice shaking with fury, "I would slap your smirking, disgusting face with it and challenge you to a duel…but my fist will have to do." He grabbed the other man by the collar, and his white-knuckled hand flew in the direction of Malfoy's jaw.

"Ron!" Hermione barked warningly. Ron checked his fist and released Malfoy, still trembling with rage. Malfoy's face was flushed, and his usually impeccable clothing was slightly rumpled where Ron had grasped his collar. "If you are ever God-damn _stupid_ enough to say anything insulting about Hermione again," Ron warned quietly, his pointed finger quivering with his wrath, "don't expect me to let you go again without so much as the bloody lip you so rightly deserve."

Malfoy raised his eyebrows scornfully. "I need to get back to work, Weasley," he said loftily, "and so do _you_…you couldn't afford to miss an hour's worth of even minimum wage pay." With that final jab, he swept out the door, the jingling of a bell heralding his exit.

"Well," Hermione said. "Not much 'as changed between you two, except that you've graduated from 'shove off' to 'fuck off.'"

Ron glared darkly at her.

"What _is_ your work now?" Hermione asked curiously.

"I work the dullest desk-and-cubicle job imaginable at the Ministry. You really don't want to know anything about what I do; it would bore you to tears."

"And…what's zis about Percy being gay?" Hermione inquired, striving very hard to mask the amusement in her voice.

"What's this about your mom being fat?" Ron retorted. Hermione looked at him quizzically, and he hastily explained, "It's just an expression…dumb 'your mom' jokes."

"What was Malfoy talking about, Ron?" Hermione persisted seriously.

"Well…" Ron began uneasily, "he broke off an engagement to Penelope Clearwater a year ago when he realized that he was in love with…" He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Spit it out, Ron…or do I seriously not want to know?" Hermione said, a laugh straining from the confines of her throat.

"No, I know you want to know. All right – Oliver Wood."

Hermione bit her lips together, trying to look sympathetic and not burst into hysterical laughter. "Well," she said, getting herself under control, "zere really isn't anyting wrong with an alternative lifestyle…"

Ron cleared his throat again, looking distinctly flustered, and said hastily, "You never finished telling me about your travels. So you went back to France and reunited with Daniel…"

Hermione nodded. "We started dating, and were going out for three months before 'e proposed. We were married on June the first, 2006. We 'ad only two years togezzer…" Hermione's voice cracked slightly. "We both wrote poetry and were able to talk to each ozzer about everyting – emotional troubles to matters of great importance in ze world. But about a year ago, 'e was diagnosed with lung cancer. I watched 'im die, Ron," Hermione whispered, her voice choked with the tears that were starting. "Zere was nothing I could do. I didn't know ze cure, and I couldn't just look it up. I tried – God, I tried, at night, when he was asleep; I just stood beside ze bed, 'olding my wand dumbly, crying inside because 'ere was one spell I didn't know, one problem zat couldn't be solved with a trip to ze library and a few magic words. And it was a problem more awful and daunting zan anyting we faced at 'ogwarts, because 'ere was someone I loved, dying before my very eyes, and God, I could do nothing…" She briefly cast a hopeless glance heavenward and began sobbing. "Daniel became Catholic in ze months before 'e died, needing to find a God to look to now zat 'e would soon be going to God. We both went to confession, 'oping to cleanse our souls of our sins; Daniel and I made several charitable contributions, realizing ze preciousness of life and ze importance of goodness. So I prayed to God for an answer every night, praying for everyting from a spell to a miracle to my own death, so I wouldn't 'ave to be parted from Daniel. But none of it did any good…yet my newfound belief 'elped me to realize zat God must 'ave 'is own plans and reasons for everyting 'e does…"

Ron was feeling a great deal like a heartless, godless monster. He found himself jealous of this Daniel he didn't know, because Hermione was grieving for him too deeply to ever consider a relationship with Ron. He berated himself inwardly for feeling this way, but he realized that he couldn't make himself sorry. He just couldn't.

"So I came back, to zis life out of all ze many lives I've lived, and all ze different places I've gone, because it was a wonderful life while it lasted, and a home; and because I 'ad learned zat I couldn't be exempt from loss in ze Muggle world, eizer…"

"How do you mean?" Ron asked, puzzled. "And why _did_ you leave? – you never answered me."

Hermione wiped tears from her cheeks. "After ze final defeat of You-Know-Who – I suppose I can call 'im Voldemort now… Well, ze train still ran from 'ogsmeade to London, and many were on it to go home as fast as steam could carry zem. I just couldn't stay…not when –" Hermione swallowed painfully. "Dumbledore said zat Harry's scar would be with 'im for ze rest of 'is life…and it was gone when Voldemort died. I supposed zat Harry was inextricably linked to Voldemort, and because the scar was gone… I couldn't stay when 'arry was…" Her voice choked, and she couldn't say it.

Just then, someone came striding quickly into the ice cream parlor, jogged over to the glass wall behind the row of booths, and swung around the metal post supporting the wall. "Hey, Ron, Finch-Fletchley 'The Boss' wants to see you about the…" The man trailed off, spotting Hermione. She scrutinized his face. He looked familiar, as if adding just one piece to the jigsaw puzzle would complete it; Hermione noticed that he was wiping raindrops off the lenses of his glasses, and when he put them back on to look at her more closely, everything came together.

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"Harry?"


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